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the trackless wastes of the northern wilds; then
on some dark night., like a ghost from another
world, he would appear silently at the door of
his mother's teepee. He would peer cautiously
through the flap of the door and then enter with-
out a word, his silent young wife always entering
behind him. After inquiring for his father, who
was still being held by the mounted police, he
would drop off into a deep sleep. Tired and worn
by the ceaseless, ever-moving vigil of the hunted
wolf, he would remain in slumber for perhaps two
days under the constant watch of his faithful
mother. Then he would awake, eat a lot, talk a
little—and then vanish again.

Once when he came in from the depths of the
wilds, his wife carried a little moss bag strapped
over her back, and in it was a tiny brown baby,
Almighty Voice, Jr,, had been born to them in
the wilderness. He is to-day an upstanding
young Indian more than six feet tall, and the
photograph reproduced here is of him and his
twin babies, born to his young wife during my
last visit with him on the One Arrow Reserve, at
Duck Lake, Saskatchewan.

Finally, in the early spring of 1897, the
mounted police suddenly changed their tactics.
In some way they sensed that there was a strong
tie between Almighty Voice and his father
Sounding Sky; and so they decided to send